


Five Stages

by Calais_Reno



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angry John, Depressed John, Don’t copy to another site, Five Stages of Grief, M/M, POV Mycroft Holmes, Post-Reichenbach, Protective Mycroft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-13
Updated: 2019-06-17
Packaged: 2020-05-02 14:32:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19200814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calais_Reno/pseuds/Calais_Reno
Summary: While Sherlock is gone, Mycroft promises to look after John. He takes this responsibility very seriously.Actually, he has no idea what to do.





	1. Research

When my brother Sherlock first laid out his plan to me, I was skeptical. Not because it wasn’t brilliant— Sherlock is good at subterfuge and has considerable experience in beating criminals at their own game. But faking his death would require precise timing and the utmost secrecy.To be safe, as few people as possible should be let in on the plan, we decided. Because of our careful planning, the operation was a success.

Thus we find ourselves saying goodbye to one another. The deed is done, the trap set, and he has only to get on with it. The danger to him is great, but he is resolved. He has but one worry, he says.

“You’ll look after John, as you agreed?”

“Oh, yes. We’ll meet up every Friday for fish and chips.”

He scowls at me. “I’m serious, Mycroft. You promised you’d see that he is safe.”

I exhale forcefully; it comes out like a sigh. “I’ll keep a weather eye on him.”

“I don’t mean sending him a text every so often.” Sherlock pats his pockets, looking for his papers. “Or having one of your flat-footed agents shadow him. What I mean is, go and see him, with your own eyes. I’m afraid he’s going to handle this badly.”

“Don’t worry, brother mine.”

He locates his new passport, frowns at the picture, and replaces it in his pocket. “And don’t alienate him. Don’t sneak up beside him in your limo and make threats. He’s not overly fond of you, so do try to be nice.”

I smile— reassuringly, I hope. “You have my word. Now, I believe you have a plane to catch.”

I watch him board, thinking about how easily everything could collapse. In truth, I am afraid for Sherlock. He has done field work for me when required, always grumbling at how tedious it is. But we both know what is at stake here, and it is a measure of his dedication that he is willing to go undercover for an undetermined length of time. I understand that kind of devotion to duty. I’ve spent my entire career serving Queen and Country.

My brother’s devotion to his doctor is less easy for me to understand. John Watson seems to me a most ordinary man, tedious and a bit slow. I recognise his unabashed admiration of Sherlock, having read the naive praise he heaps on my brother’s ego in his dull little blog. That is the root of it all: Sherlock’s ego.

I have promised to take care of the man, whatever that entails, but the responsibility does not weigh on me.I doubt that anyone in Moriarty’s network is gunning for the little doctor now. Sherlock is gone, supposedly dead, and nobody cares about John Watson.

Except Sherlock.

 

I ask Anthea to put appropriately spaced reminders into my calendar so I won’t forget to check up on Dr Watson. My first visit should be soon, I suppose, if for no other reason than to express my condolences. I am aware that my brother loves Watson, but am less sure about the doctor’s feelings. He has avowed his heterosexuality on a number of occasions, which is why Sherlock has never opened the subject of feelings with him.

In matters of love, Sherlock is an idiot. He lets his heart run away with him. Once, a long time ago, I had to step in. I wish I could say that the outcome was satisfactory, and that a valuable lesson was learned by all, but it was, in fact, nearly a disaster. Most of the time, I try to steer him into other things. As long as he’s busy solving crimes, he is less likely to become infatuated.

When the doctor moved into the flat at Baker Street, I had no fears. He was simply too boring to possibly interest my brother. I will say that our first conversation piqued my interest just a bit. The little man showed a bit of swagger that time, actually stood up to me, refusing to spy on Sherlock. _Very loyal, very quickly._

I should have paid more attention. He is a military man, always a bit of a fetish for Sherlock. And blond, another preference. Shorter than average, smarter than he looks, but overall, ordinary. A goldfish. I didn’t spend much time thinking about the doctor over the year and a half that he lived with Sherlock.

His loyalty was unswerving. Like a dog who has found its master, he began to follow Sherlock around London, gun tucked into the back waistband of his trousers. I kept waiting for him to get fed up and leave. He didn’t. He and Sherlock argued, but Watson was apparently not going anywhere. He broke up with girlfriends for Sherlock, gave up regular hours, put up with insults and inanities. It was puzzling. What kind of man does that?

 

My first visit to the flat finds John in a bad way. He lies curled up on the sofa, staring at Sherlock’s chair. He seems almost catatonic.

 _This might be normal_ , I think. _Or at least preferable to weeping_. My skillset does not include dealing with weepy people. I know that there is a progress to mourning, stages one must pass through. John will no doubt move along that trajectory, eventually come out at the end a whole person, a man who has managed to move on and find a life without Sherlock. How my brother will take that is difficult to say. I will have to consider his feelings, I suppose, if the doctor develops new romantic interests.

After several attempts at small talk are rebuffed, I aim for a cheerful suggestion. “Well, perhaps you will resume taking nourishment in a few days. I would highly recommend it. No doubt cooking will be out of the question, though, so I’ll have some prepared food sent over for you. If there is anything else I can do—”

“Yes.” Twenty minutes of silence, and now a request. “His scarf. He was wearing it.”

“What about it?”

“I want it.”

“You want his scarf?”

“Yes.”

“You want it because…?”

“Because it was his.”

 _Sentiment_. Always on the losing side. “I’m not sure.” _Awkward_. “His clothing was… removed…”

“Go away, Mycroft.” He closes his eyes.

I obey his wishes.

 

It troubles me. Is he all right? Is is normal to lie upon the sofa catatonically when in grief? Apparently, I have underestimated Watson’s feelings for my brother. To be so stricken, he must feel more than I had assumed.

There is someone I can ask, however. Molly Hooper is well-versed in sentiment, and she knew my brother better than most. 

She looks up, frowning slightly, when I enter the pathology lab. “Mr Holmes. What brings you to St Bart’s?”

“I wondered if I might impose on you.” I put on my most winning smile. “May I buy you lunch?”

She is not happy, I can see, and I assume it is because she was coopted into covering up Sherlock’s fall from the roof of St Bart’s. But she agrees to have lunch with me.

We sit in the hospital eatery. I have purchased egg salad for her and, after reviewing the other offerings, just coffee for myself. I find it ironic that the food choices in a hospital should be so unappealing. Searching for a way to break into conversation naturally, I prepare to inquire about her health, but she gets right to the point.

“Just tell me why you’re here,” she says.

“I have been tasked with keeping an eye on Doctor Watson. I assume you’ve talked with him.”

“No.” She looks a bit guilty. “John is… I just didn’t think I could take responsibility for that.”

This is a puzzling response. I assume that a simple man like John Watson would be relatively easy to manage. “You expected him to take it hard, then?”

She nods. “I told Sherlock it was a bad idea. He said he had to do it.”

Indeed, our analysis of the situation indicated two benefits to the plan, the first being that it would take the target off his friends; the second being that once assumed dead, he could pursue the rest of Moriarty’s gang and put them out of commission. Neither of us had considered the feelings of the survivors. They would survive, and that seemed the salient point.

“Do you consider yourself a _friend_ of Dr Watson?” I bypass defining what she might consider a _friend_. I perceive that she has feelings for Sherlock, but has come to resent being made keeper of such an important secret. It seems reasonable to assume that a positive answer means she has at least some wish to keep Dr Watson alive. A negative answer will mean that she does not care whether he lives or dies. In that case, she may not be useful to me.

She frowns at me severely. From her expression, I deduce that she considers Dr Watson a rival for Sherlock’s affections and does not wish him well. People are rarely altruistic enough to wish their competitors well, however sportsmanlike it may be to do so.

“Sherlock loves John.” This admission seems to cause her some anguish. “He didn’t ask me to keep an eye on him. I assume he trusted you more.”

“Perhaps,” I acknowledge. I do not wish to cause her pain, but my promise to Sherlock demands that I recruit her assistance. “Sherlock trusted me to make sure Dr Watson is managing. My handicap is that I do not know the doctor as well as you do. His personal habits seem to have… deteriorated. He lies about, not eating or washing or making any effort to stay alive. I am embarrassed to admit that I am quite at a loss as to how to help. Sherlock expects me to look after him. Dr Watson, however, does _not_ desire me to look after him.” I note that she is staring at me. “Without intervention, I fear he will make himself ill, or worse. Any advice would be appreciated.”

She rolls her eyes. “For intelligent people, you and your brother are truly imbeciles.”

This is harsh criticism and, under the circumstances, rather unkind. I attempt to look apologetic, not a look I’ve practiced much. “Perhaps my inexperience is showing. You seem to be a person who excels at _sentiment._ Pray enlighten me, if you can.”

“He’s grieving.”

 _Obviously,_ I think. Only an imbecile could fail to notice the cause of John Watson’s failure to eat, sleep, or bathe. Dr Hooper is looking at me as if I am the imbecile here. “I believe there are five stages,” I helpfully supply. Prior to this interview, I looked this information up and memorised the markers of each stage. My intent is to show her I am not entirely the wrong person to manage grief. “I have been attempting to discern whether he is in Stage Two, _Anger,_ or Stage Four, _Depression_. I am not sure whether he has engaged in Stage Three, _Bargaining_ , or what that would look like.” When she remains silent, I prompt her. “Suggestions?”

She rolls her eyes a second time. Not entirely necessary, I note, since I have already acknowledged my inexperience. Apparently, my apologetic look needs work.

“He needs someone to listen to him, to let him be angry and sad. He isn’t ready to move on, and it doesn’t do any good to figure out what stage he’s in as long as you keep trying to push him towards something he’s not ready to feel. Let him feel what he’s feeling. Express concern, but don’t judge.”

“Ah.” I nod. “Perhaps you are more suited to that task than I am. Feelings are rarely necessary in my profession. My expertise lies in the area of expediting negotiations. But you are suggesting that this is not the best strategy?”

She sighs deeply. “No. This isn’t a negotiation, Mr Holmes. There is no winning or losing.”

I wonder what else there could be, but am astute enough not to voice this thought. I long ago discerned that every human interaction involves negotiation, either with one’s self or with others. I could have catalogued the types of negotiation and described their various effects, but one cannot use logic with a person who sees the world through the rose-coloured glasses of sentiment. “Will you visit him?” I ask. “I am not expecting you to expedite him towards the final stage, if that is not appropriate. But could you simply look in on him and give me your expert opinion?”

“Expert?”

“As one who understands sentiment,” I explain. “I wish to engage you as a consultant, so to speak.”

She looks confused, then sad. Sherlock has explained to me that this is normal with Dr Hooper. She is frequently confused and sad. “Fine. I’ll visit him. But I’m not spying for you. If you want to help John, you have to visit him yourself.”

“Splendid. I’ll expect your report by the weekend. Is that acceptable?”

She nods. “You might want to talk to Lestrade, too. He knows John quite well.”

I rise and incline my head. “Thank you, Dr Hooper. Your suggestions have been most valuable.”

 

As there are several days until the weekend, I decide to gather more data. I have already put into place the necessary surveillance on the Baker Street building, but Mr Lestrade is a policeman, and my brother has always thought well of his ability to collect data. Analysing it is another matter. Policemen tend to be very concrete people, focused on what they can experience with their senses. Applying logic to a case is, apparently, an alien concept. It is no wonder that they idolised Sherlock. Like Neanderthals seeing their first brother strike a flint and produce a spark, they regard him with awe.

I meet DI Lestrade at Scotland Yard. He offers me a cup of coffee and a pastry. I take the coffee, just to be polite. The pastry looks a bit past its prime.

“Stupid git,” Mr Lestrade begins. “I don’t know what he was thinking, but he’s caused me no end of trouble.”

This is not the veneration I expected. My brother has solved many cases for Mr Lestrade, and this seems ungrateful, to say the least. Then again, he cannot be aware that a sniper had his scope trained on him while my brother was being a _stupid git._ I decide to let it pass. Perhaps Mr Lestrade is stuck in Stage Two.

He seems to realise this. “No disrespect intended towards the… erm… dead.”

It is fascinating, really, to observe this policeman struggling with sentiment. He has been trained to remain neutral and unemotional in difficult situations, but he clearly does feel sentiment towards my brother, and not all of it positive. Unlike Dr Hooper, he knows nothing about the plot, and thus may feel that he might have prevented it.

“I have taken it upon myself to look after Dr Watson and would like to consult with you on the most appropriate ways to do this. I have, of course, set up routine surveillance, but hope you might provide me with more personal ways to determine that he is handling my brother’s death in a reasonable manner.”

“Routine surveillance?”

“I have men watching the building, in shifts. And the CCTV is useful for tracking his movements when and if he does leave the flat. He seems to have turned off his mobile; no signal we can track. I wondered if you might invite him out for a pint or some such thing, which would allow me to install monitoring devices in the flat.”

“You’re planning to bug his flat?” The look on the DI’s face tells me that this is, as one might say, _a bit not good._

I smile reassuringly. “He won’t know. I’m not a voyeur, Mr Lestrade. It is simply the most straight-forward way to see that he is not harming himself.”

The DI is giving me an odd look. “I’m guessing you used to do that when Sherlock was using.”

“That would certainly have made things simpler, but my brother was always able to figure out where the devices were and would destroy them. Rather than exhaust my budget for such items, I had people regularly break into his flat and check for drugs. And they followed him on CCTV, naturally, though there are spots in the city where there are no cameras. Due to my efforts, however, there are now very few places a person can go and not be caught on camera.”

He rubs his chin thoughtfully. “I see. Big Brother is watching us all, not just his younger brother.”

I ignore the obvious Orwellian allusion. “But Dr Watson is not so observant. In his present state, he is quite oblivious. I am quite sure he would not know he was being watched.”

“Look, Mr Holmes, I think you’re going about this wrong— and not just because you’re breaking lots of laws—which probably don’t apply to you. What I mean is, there are better things you could be doing for him.”

“Is that so.” I anticipate that most of his suggestions will involve beer.

“John’s not the type to hurt himself. He’s a quiet bloke, but very social. Being around people is what he needs. I could invite him out, if you like. That would be no trouble at all. And I could set him up with women. Nothing like a bit of flirtation to put a bloke straight. Or he might travel a bit. He always talks about the places he’s been, wistful-like, you know. And he likes to be useful. There’s ways he can do both, you know, doctoring people in third-world countries, for example. Like a philanthropic tour. Or he might— ”

He rambles on, making suggestions for several minutes, but I am quite sure this is not what Sherlock had in mind. In fact, I am certain he expects Watson to be single and living at Baker Street when he returns. He didn’t say this, but I know my brother, and I have seen the way he looks at his doctor. Watson, of course, never notices anything.

I can see that this is going to be tricky. He must not give in to despair, but marrying a female he might meet in a bar, moving to Canada, or joining some international league of doctors fixing people in parts unknown— all of these are to be avoided. Dr Watson is a social animal, as Lestrade has noted. Whereas Sherlock lurks and sulks and lies about for days when he is unhappy or bored, Dr Watson goes out for a pint and flirts with women.

Or he makes himself useful, cleaning out the refrigerator or folding laundry or writing in his blog. This seems like a better avenue to pursue. The problem is how to move him forward to Stage Five, _Acceptance_. Or possibly Stage Six (well, it ought to be a stage), _Tidying Up_ , where he will begin cleaning the woodwork, reorganising the cabinets, and papering over the bullet holes.

“You’ve been most helpful, Mr Lestrade.” I stand and incline my head. “Thank you for the coffee.”

“Always a pleasure, Mr Holmes.” He stands as well, awkwardly offering me his hand.

Smiling, I take his hand, giving it an appropriate amount of pressure. “I’ll be in touch.”

 

Dr Hooper calls me on Saturday morning.

“I stopped in last night to see him.”

“Very good. In your expert opinion, what stage is he in?”

“Eleven,” she says.

Perhaps I have made an error in judgment. Dr Hooper does not appear to understand the Five Stages. I choose my words with care. “Ah, I see. It seems we may be using different scales of measurement. Can you convert your _Eleven_ to the Kubler-Ross scale?”

There is silence on her end. “You need to do more than observe him or categorise him, or whatever it is you think you’re doing. When I say _eleven,_ I mean that he is off the chart. If you really want to help him, to keep him alive, you need to spend time with him.”

“I have attempted conversation with him several times, to no avail.”

“Then he’s not ready to talk. Do you understand what I mean?”

I think about how one might companionably be with another without conversation. “A film, perhaps? A concert?”

“It’s not a date, Mycroft,” she says. I can hear her rolling her eyes. “Maybe you could just hang out with him.”

“ _Hang out?”_ I am loathe to admit it, but I have no real concept of _hanging out._ When people say that they are going to do this, I always imagine loud music and intoxicating substances. If the music were Bach and the intoxicating substance were a Chateau Lafite Rothschild, perhaps I could tolerate _hanging out,_ but I fear that very few people would agree with my choices.

“Go over to see him. Sit in a chair. Watch the telly. Have a beer.”

“In what way will this be helpful? He can turn the telly on whenever he wishes to do so. Having a beer does not require the presence of other people.”

There are sounds at her end, as if she is hitting her head against a wall. “I give up. Do whatever you think best. Just do it where you can keep an eye on him.”

She may have a point. I will explore _hanging out._


	2. Plan B

I am going to have to be much more hands-on about this operation, I decide. I do not generally do leg-work, but a certain amount of personal contact is going to be necessary if I am to present my brother with an intact, unmarried Watson on his return. I may have to keep him busy, and it is clear that the flat will not take a year to tidy up.

It is time for another visit, I think.

“What the fuck do you want?” he greets me when I come through the door.

Stage Two _, Anger,_ I think. This is progress, at least, even if it promises to be a tortuous route. I consider how to move him towards Stage Three, _Bargaining,_ though I’m still not sure what that stage involves.

“Have dinner with me,” I offer. “If you do, I’ll go away.” I wait to see if he will make a counter-offer.

He does. “Maybe you could just go fuck yourself.”

All right, not ready to move on from _Anger_.

I give him my peace offering, the scarf.

When he sees it, his expression changes. Bringing it to his face, he begins to weep.

“Why did he do it?” Weeping is a marker for _Depression_ , Stage Four. I am already nostalgic for Stage Two, _Anger_. I know how to argue with an angry person. I don’t know how to comfort a depressed one. He gives a half-sob and continues. “He didn’t seem… distraught. You know him— what did I miss?”

_Guilt._ What stage is that? Two and a half? Clearly, the system needs revamping. “Perhaps he thought he was protecting you.”

“From what?”

“I can’t answer that,” I reply. “I know that he cared deeply about you.”

“If he cared about me, why didn’t he tell me what he was planning? Why did he let me leave? Why did he make me watch? I was his best friend. I thought so, anyway. And I didn’t know.” He carries on weeping.

“If you didn’t know, it was because he didn’t want you to know.” I play the dinner card again. “You have to eat something, John. And you need to get out of this flat. Let me take you somewhere.”

“Where? There is no place I can go that doesn’t remind me of him.”

I take him to the Diogenes Club. We dine in a private room, and though the Rule of Silence does not apply here, he is silent. As he expresses no preference, I order for us both, a light meal of grilled trout with morel mushrooms, basil-thyme risotto, and braised garlic-lemon kale. The wine steward recommends a nice, dry Sauvignon Blanc.

He picks at the fish. After several minutes of strategically re-arranging the mushrooms, he sighs. “I’m sorry. I can tell this is really good, but I’m just not that hungry.”

“No worries,” I say. “The chef can have it packed up for you so you can reheat it tomorrow.” Microwaving such a meal will completely ruin the flavours, to say nothing of texture, but I don’t mention this. John Watson generally eats fish only when it has been covered in batter and deep-fried, with a side of chips— not risotto and kale. He will not notice what becomes of his grilled trout in the microwave oven.

He gives me a half-smile. “It surprises me, you know, that you care enough to force haute cuisine on me.”

“You are my brother’s friend. Of course I care.”

His smile fades, and he begins to look sad again. The wine is delicious, and I can no longer remember which stage of grief we are in. I order us dessert: champagne-strawberry parfait, layered with Italian sponge cake and creme fraîche. I am not sure whether he has a sweet tooth, but I do not deny my own.

He tastes it. “This is great.” He takes another bite and I congratulate myself. There are few moods that cannot be lightened by creme fraîche and berries. “He never talked about his childhood. Did you two ever get along?”

“We did. At first the age difference was an advantage. He rather idolised me. When he entered adolescence, he was more advanced than his peers, and found a kindred mind in me.” I smile, remembering. “When he was fifteen, he had a rapid growth spurt, four inches in six months. He was delighted to suddenly be tall, to look down on our mother and father. _I love being tall,_ he used to say. _Nobody pats me on the head anymore._ ”

Dr Watson grins. “I always thought, maybe he liked me because I’m short and he can look down on me.”

“Not at all. He greatly respected you. I cannot think how often he bragged about you— your temerity, your intelligence, your steadfast loyalty. He valued you.” This is not a lie. Sherlock frequently bragged about his doctor. Most of the time, I thought it was greatly exaggerated. Now I begin to see these qualities in him.

He rests his spoon in the tall glass, looking sad again. “He was the wisest and best man I’ve ever known.”

I don’t know how to reply to this. When negotiating, one must sometimes allow the silence to lengthen, just to hear what your opponent will reach for. While I do not consider this a negotiation or regard Dr Watson as an opponent, I remember Dr Hooper’s words: _let him feel what he’s feeling._

The silence lengthens. It is almost companionable.

We part on the sidewalk in front of the club. He insists on a cab, I insist on my driver taking him home. Another negotiation. In the end, he smiles, thanks me, and gets in the car. I stroll across the street to my townhouse.

_This is not so difficult_ , I think. Dinner once a week, perhaps, will work.

 

Three nights later I am awakened from a peaceful slumber by a call from DI Lestrade.

“Can you come and get him?” He sounds weary. “I think I can get the ASBO dropped.”

As it happens, Dr Watson has consumed a great deal of alcohol and threatened to beat up a policeman. He also sang, vomited, wept, and refused to move off a park bench. He was arrested just as he made the decision to disrobe and go bathing in the Boating Lake at Regent’s Park. As it is currently February, that was not a well-thought-out plan.

When I arrive at the the police station, Lestrade is apologetic. “They called me as soon as they realised who he was. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him with so many sheets to the wind. I wasn’t sure what to do with him, and then I remembered you telling me how you were taking an interest in him, seeing him through the rough times. I wouldn’t have called you otherwise. There’s no one else looking after him.”

I feel both annoyed and proud, if that is possible. Annoyed to have my rare peaceful slumber broken by a drunken rampage, and proud that I am the hero of this sad epic, rescuing John Watson from demons that threaten to ruin his reputation. Getting an ASBO rescinded is child’s play for a man of my influence. When he wakes in a few hours, he will surely be grateful that I intervened on his behalf. My driver helps steer him into the limo. We have to stop once so he can vomit again, but then he falls asleep.

I debate whether he would rather wake up at my house or in the Baker Street flat. Even if he wakes on the floor, I decide that waking up in his own flat will be preferable. Once upon a time, I imbibed too many glasses of a lovely Bulgarian Cab Sauv, 1992, and awakened in a place I did not expect to be. That was unpleasant. John Watson will be happier waking up in his own bed than in my guest room, where he has never slept, and where he might vomit again.

Because sleep is a deficit found on the losing side, I settle into my brother’s chair and read emails once the doctor is tucked into bed. I plan a revolution in a Balkan country, and decide which of my ties have seen too many occasions to be influential any longer. I read an article about the geometric parameters of the current Central Asian land dispute, and study my Korean vocabulary, focusing on words that might be insulting in the right context.

At nine the following morning I am still productively scanning input from my lieutenants, when Dr Watson stumbles down the hall and falls into the loo.

My first impulse is to help him up, but this presents an awkward aftermath. If he should need help doing necessary things, I am not quite up for that.

I wait, and hear him right himself, close the door. At this point my mind helpfully blocks out the noises of a person experiencing the symptoms of hangover.

Eventually, after many sounds I would rather not have heard, he staggers down the hall to the kitchen and attempts to fill the kettle with water.

“Allow me,” I say, coming up behind him and grabbing the kettle.

He screams, literally, and collapses against the worktop. “What are you doing here?”

“Your memory, combined with excessive amounts of bad scotch, is kindly blocking out your adventures from last night,” I inform him. “I believe paracetamol is the standard treatment, along with sufficient rehydration.”

He groans. “What happened last night?”

I give him the short version, because it it beyond my powers of imagination to explain why he thought a naked, cold-weather bathe in the Boating Lake was a good idea.

He sighs and pries himself from the worktop, collapses in a chair. “You didn’t have to stay. I’m just glad I didn’t… that we didn’t… that you…”

I have thought of what needs to be said, and begin without preamble. “Dr Watson, as your friend—”

“You’re not my fucking friend,” he says. Or rather, shouts, sobs, wails. “Leave me alone.”

A conversation will not be productive, I surmise. I slip my phone into my pocket and retrieve my umbrella from the stand near the door. “Very well, doctor. I will allow you to recover in private. Dinner on Thursday?”

“Dinner?” He groans and holds his head. “Food is the last thing I want to think about right now.”

“Everyone needs to eat,” I point out. “As long as that is true, we may as well dine together. Diogenes Club, seven o’clock. I’ll send the car.”

I turn and stride out of his flat without casting a backward glance.

 

He refuses my car on Thursday. I dine alone. For two weeks, I am unable to contact him. He has evidently turned his phone off. Fortunately, I have his flat under surveillance. I watch the footage, see him wander between the bedroom, the loo, and the kitchen. A triangle of habit. But at least he is drinking tea, eating the food Mrs Hudson sneaks into his refrigerator, and sleeping in Sherlock’s bed.

Because I cannot watch him twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, I have various underlings keep an eye on the cameras. He begins venturing out, going to Tesco every few days, returning with milk and eggs. I remind my watchers to alert me if he enters a drinking establishment.

“Mr Holmes,” an underling informs me one morning, “Dr Watson brought a person into the flat last night.”

“And why did you not inform me last night? Have you identified this person?”

“One Tori Higginbottam. A cashier.”

“And where did he find this person?”

“It appears he met her at Tesco.”

A spike of worry in my gut tells me this is not a good development. John Watson should not be picking females up at Tesco. Or anywhere. “Is she still there?”

“I assume so. They are in the upstairs bedroom.”

_Interesting_. He has been sleeping in Sherlock’s bed for months. Why switch rooms? Does he know that the upper bedroom has no camera? That would be a reasonable assumption, but if he realises that there is a camera in Sherlock’s room, why does he tolerate it?

I debate what action I ought to take. I could show up at his flat, which might embarrass him. Sherlock had many ways to deal with John’s females, most of them quite effective. He kept a supply of severed fingers for just such occasions. Applying acid to decomposing flesh in the kitchen was quite a potent way to derail his doctor’s dating habits.

This is not my style, though. I order my underlings to find out everything possible about the young lady, ask Anthea to have her picked up for an interview. Meanwhile, I seek out Mr Lestrade.

He is as far from being alarmed as he could possibly be. “Good on him.” He grins. “About time he got a leg over.”

“This is not a good development,” I insist. “He only just met this woman, and she appears to be unworthy of his attentions.”

“ _Unworthy_?” he scoffs. “You jealous?”

I frown so hard that it hurts. “I mean that Dr Watson does not need to degrade himself with low-class cashiers who are eager to be intimate with customers. He is better than that.”

Lestrade shakes his head. “Look, he’s lost his best friend, barely functioned for weeks, and he’s lonely. Now he’s at least noticing women. That’s healthy. It means he’s ready to begin moving on.”

I cannot deny the logic of this. But how did John Watson get to Stage Five without me noticing? Hoping that this is some odd manifestation of Bargaining, I decide to maintain surveillance, but not intervene. I text Anthea and tell her to make some vague threats and let the girl go.

 

John Watson returns to the clinic where he works. There are many females employed there, but he is circumspect about his work environment, does not bring any of them to the flat.

Over the following weeks, we observe several women entering the flat, spending the night in the upper bedroom, and leaving in the morning. It happens about once a week. None have a return engagement. Anthea compiles a file on each one. They are cashiers, barmaids, insurance clerks, waitresses, receptionists and one preschool teacher. While I find the concept of disposable females a bit nauseating, it is preferable to a more permanent arrangement. Sherlock will not be pleased, but he can hardly expect me to keep Watson off the market, away from feminine eyes. The man is moderately handsome, in an average, ordinary way, and, when he is not overly intoxicated, can be quite pleasant to be around. These are my own observations. I do not know how females evaluate the attractiveness of a potential mate, but they could do much worse than John Watson.

We resume our Thursday dinners. I make no comment on the women during these evenings, and he does not bring it up either. I drop by the flat at random times, but avoid running into any of them.

Oddly enough, I find myself looking forward to these evenings. Now that Watson is having regular sexual relations, he is able to carry on a conversation without telling me to _fuck off._ We touch on a variety of topics. He wants to know more about Sherlock’s youth, and I am curious about his experiences in Afghanistan, mostly from a foreign-relations vantage point. I see evidence of _Depression_ , but sense that Stage Five, _Acceptance_ , is close.

Still, he does not advance. He has a temper which he sometimes exercises, but this does not feel the same as Stage Two. He is most likely _Bargaining_ with females, as evidenced by the comings and goings from the flat, but many evenings he just stays home and watches horrible reality shows. This may be _Depression._

 

I stop by the flat on a Monday. He does not seem intoxicated, but is in a terrible way. My observers have alerted me that he has had no females at the flat this week. Nor has he been drinking.

Blearily, he stares up at me from the sofa. “I need to move out.”

“Doctor, I am more than willing to continue paying the other half of the rent. Even the entire rent, until you get back on your feet.”

“Why? He isn’t coming back.”

“Perhaps it’s sentiment,” I say. “Sherlock would want me to do this.”

He shakes his head. “It’s not the money.”

“What is it, then?”

He begins to cry.

I sit in the chair closest to the sofa, which happens to be my brother’s. I turn it to face him. We’re revisiting Stage Four, _Depression,_ apparently— my least favourite.

“You had seemed to be doing better.” Inwardly, I curse my brother for putting this responsibility on me, when I am so inexperienced in matters of the heart. But then I remember that, under Molly Hooper’s care, he might have died of neglect by now. And Lestrade would have turned him into a Doctor Without Borders. Though under my watch he has become a Sad Doctor With Multiple Transitory Females, at least I understand the true objective, to make sure John Watson is not dead, not in a relationship, and not residing in another country. So far, so good.

“Everything here reminds me of him.” He wipes his eyes. “I think if I move out, I might be able to put it behind me. Not forget. God, I'll ever forget.”

It is pointless to remind him that sentiment is always a losing proposition. Grief seems to deactivate key areas of the brain, the prefrontal cortex being primary.

“Forgetting is not the goal,” I tell him. “The goal is acceptance.”

This earns an angry look from him. “I cannot accept that my best friend killed himself.”

As I have so many times before, I think how much easier it would be to tell him. But the reports I receive on Moriarty’s associates indicate that this would be premature. He has agents even here in London.

“You will make new friends,” I say. “They will not be Sherlock, but you will survive.”

He does not look entirely convinced, but he nods.

 

Stage Five is elusive. After weeks have passed, bouncing between isolation and depressing reality television, bargaining with women and yelling at me to _fuck off_ , the solution comes to me in a blinding flash of realisation. I must provide him with a woman who will conveniently disappear when Sherlock returns home, an acceptable female worthy of John Watson, hand-picked to play a role convincingly, to keep him from midnight swims and inferior cashiers.

“A spy?” Anthea looks skeptical.

“Information is not the objective,” I explain. “She will ward off other females, preventing unfortunate entanglements.”

“Do you have anyone in mind?”

I wondered if she might be interested, but it could be awkward, I decided. “Erm, no. I will leave that to you.” I pause at the door of my office. “Brunette, I think.”

 

Anthea presents the finalists in the Win Watson's Heart contest. All three are agents working for me, eager to curry favour.

The first one is submitted for my consideration. I veto him at once. “Did I forget to mention that Dr Watson is _not gay_?” I ask.

Anthea nods. “But you have to admit that he loved your brother. And perhaps a new flat mate will work as well as a temporary woman.” She smiles. “He’s very likeable.”

I sit behind a one-way glass, studying the candidate. Sheldon Hollins is tall, has dark, curly hair and pale eyes. “Disturbing,” I say. “He looks like a sitcom actor we might hire to play Sherlock.”

“Ask him a question,” she suggests.

I press the button on the microphone. “Mr Hollins, describe your deficits.”

He looks thoughtful for a minute, then replies in a plummy baritone. “I am not a difficult man to live with, though I do get in the dumps at times and don’t open my mouth for days on end. I play the violin when I’m thinking—”

“Thank you!” I say loudly, then turn to Anthea. “Get rid of him.”

Anthea waves him out and invites in the next nominee. This woman has long brown hair and hazel eyes. She has good skin and teeth, and a very intelligent face. “State your name,” I say into the microphone.

“Amelie Palmer,” she replies. She has a low, sympathetic voice and an attractive smile. Attractive without appearing tawdry. Not gratingly cheerful, but projecting an informed optimism.

“She may be a bit above him,” I say to Anthea. “Could she manage to appear a bit more common?”

“She could wear low-cut blouses,” Anthea suggests. “Open-toe shoes.”

I am looking at her resume. “Your resume states that you have a background in biochemistry.”

“Yes, sir. I obtained a degree at Oxford before joining the Secret Service. I have worked in MI6 for five years, most of them on the continent. My resume lists twenty-three references from a variety of fields, all with references of their own. I speak nine languages fluently, including ancient Sanskrit and Icelandic.”

Since language fluency is not a prerequisite for seducing Dr Watson, I move ahead to the next item. “How tall are you?”

“Five feet, seven inches.”

I frown at Anthea. “Too tall.”

“Not necessarily,” she says. “Shorter men often enjoy dating taller women. It makes other men look at them with envy, as if they have some secret power of attraction. Of Dr Watson’s previous assignations, over fifty percent were with women taller than him. She’s only an inch taller, so not too intimidating. She could wear flats, if you think it matters.”

Anthea has done her research well, I decide. This woman may be a good candidate.

“Are you willing to have sexual relations with a man who is depressed, angry, and possibly suicidal?” I ask her.

She leans towards the microphone, raises her chin. “For Queen and country, absolutely.”

“Thank you, Miss Palmer. We will be in touch.”

The next applicant has curly blond hair, blue eyes, and an annoyingly sweet expression. “Has Dr Watson ever dated a blonde?” I ask Anthea.

“Blondes, redheads, brunettes, short, tall, freckled, pale, olive-complected, thin, curvy, chubby, good teeth, bad teeth, flat feet—”

“Yes,” I interrupt. “He is not so picky when it comes to a woman’s appearance. But this woman is meant to keep him interested for several months. While he may put up with her for one night, what we need to determine is whether he will enjoy her company enough to have a second or third date with her.” I lean towards the microphone, press the _talk_ button. “What are your qualifications for the position?”

She startles a bit, looking up at the speaker. She cannot see Anthea and me, I know.

“Well, I’m fun to be around. I have a medical background, so I could easily pose as a nurse in the surgery where he works. I have no trouble keeping a man’s interest.” She giggles. “If you know what I mean.”

I turn to Anthea. “How long has she been with us?”

“Just six months.”

“What was she doing before that?”

“Working as a massage therapist.”

_Massage therapist_ could mean many things, some of them illegal. “In other words, you cannot be sure of her.”

“She has completed several missions successfully. Her superiors praise her ability to slip into a role. And she is quite experienced in seducing men.”

Something is putting me off this candidate. I always trust my instincts when it comes to people. John Watson will not be attracted to this woman.

“Thank you, Miss…”

“Morstan. Mary Morstan.”

“Hire Ms Palmer,” I tell Anthea.

 

Ms Palmer is placed as a receptionist at the surgery where Watson works. He greets her in a friendly manner each morning as he arrives, but seems oblivious to her charms. I instruct her to pretend that her last boyfriend died. This will give them a bond, something to talk about during lunch.

She plays it well, presenting herself as a strong, but vulnerable female. She wears low-cut blouses, open-toe shoes, and smiles a lot. He smiles back, eats lunch with her, but does not invite her to his flat. She flirts more brazenly. He tells her he’s not ready for a serious relationship.

After two months of blatant, but subtle flirtation, sympathy, and concern over his welfare, she still hasn’t made any inroads.

A new nurse is hired to fill a recently-opened position. The former nurse, it seems, fell onto the tracks of an incoming train. Quite a dramatic way to die. Though several hundred people fall onto rail tracks each year in the UK, many of those are not accidental. It is odd that a forty-two year old woman would suddenly lose her balance while waiting for the same train she caught every day for work.

The new nurse is Mary Morstan. Fun to be around, former masseuse, experienced in seducing men.

“Is Ms Morstan still working for us?” I ask Anthea. “Because it appears that she has, so to speak, gone rogue.”

“I’m sorry, Mr Holmes.” She is embarrassed. “I don’t know what happened.”

“Find out,” I snap. “I want to know every single thing about Mary Morstan.”

 

It appears that we have made a terrible mistake. Anthea apologises to me each morning when she shares her intelligence with me.

“She was never a masseuse,” she tells me on Monday. “She worked as an assassin for the CIA. I’m sorry, sir.”

In truth, Anthea is one of the most intelligent people who have ever worked for me. I cannot stay angry with her because she is irreplaceable. If Morstan fooled Anthea, even I would not have had suspicions. The fact that she was entrusted with this plan, though, allows me to glare at her more than usual. She knows I don’t mean it.

“Did the CIA fire her? Did she go rogue?”

On Tuesday she has an answer. “My apologies, sir. She was a mole for the Russians.”

“Was she working for the Russians when we hired her six months ago?’

“Sir, our reports indicate that she had already gone rogue and by then was working freelance.”

It is already Wednesday. “We don’t even know her real name and country of origin,” I point out. “Is this the best we can do?”

“Sorry, Mr Holmes. She is very good at what she does.”

“Who is she freelancing for? That is what we need to know.”

On Thursday, she enters my office looking abashed. “Sir, I’m sorry we didn’t know before.”

I sigh, resigned to whatever she may have discovered. I wave my hand. _Get on with it._

“She was working for Moriarty. Now she’s teamed up with Sebastian Moran.”

This is bad news. “Anything else?”

Anthea draws a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “She has a date with John Watson tomorrow night.”


	3. Red Alert

On Friday evening, I head over to Baker Street. Anthea and I have talked it over, and decided to monitor the situation closely, with a goal of learning why Mary Morstan is trying to seduce John Watson. Undoubtedly it has to do with Sherlock. To learn the details of what they are planning, we will have to let the relationship proceed. I have doubled the number of agents assigned to watch the doctor, and put eyes on Miss Morstan as well. My role tonight will be to discern his feelings, and possibly steer him away from her.

Dr Watson is getting dressed for his date with the assassin. He has chosen a less ugly jumper and a pair of more recent-looking corduroys— and cologne. _Intention, and interest_.

“Who’s the lucky woman?” I ask.

He shrugs. “Just a woman at work. She’s a nurse.”

“Where are you taking her?” He looks rather handsome tonight; I deduce he’s chosen a restaurant he cannot afford.

“Angelo’s.”

With some difficulty, I control my features. Angelo’s restaurant was where he and Sherlock used to eat. The owner was convinced that they were more than friends, insisting on a candle for the table each time, _for atmosphere_.

I feel jealous on my brother’s behalf. All this time, I have been moving Watson towards Stage Five, _Acceptance,_ and now I see that this is _not_ a good thing. I have been concerned about this woman, but even if he does not have a second or third date with her, it is a warning. There will be others. Once Watson accepts that Sherlock is not coming back, he will move on, look for a wife, settle into a boring house in the suburbs, and produce small Watsons. He will change.

The alternative is to keep him stalled in some other stage. I imagine what that would look like, and what that would do to him. Sherlock might prefer that he remain depressed or angry rather than move on, but that would not be healthy. While grief seems to follow a cyclical path, revolving among the stages, I cannot deny that there has been progression towards Acceptance. Watson has moved from despair to hope; he wants to live, and for that he must give up the deepest parts of his grief. For me to prevent that would be manipulative, even cruel.

I try to prepare Sherlock for this eventuality when we communicate later that night. Our contact has been sporadic, and though I have followed his movements, I have trusted others to see that he stays alive. I am no longer sure what his expectations are. He will soon return; will he be happy for John?

Finding him married to an ex-masseuse assassin will not make any of us happy. But if we make it through this adventure, what will Watson’s reaction be to seeing Sherlock again? I rather suspect that he will take a swing at him. Perhaps I can prevent that, at least.

“Is John all right?” he asks. There is nothing else he wants to know.

“Fine,” I say. “He’s fine. Coming along. It’s taken a while, but I think he is finally accepting your death, moving on with his life.”

This is apparently not what he wanted to hear. “I underestimated… how hard it would be for him.”

I feel a bit impatient. Fearless enough to wade in and, against terrible odds, to bring down a network of terrorists, my brother is still too timid to admit his feelings to the man he loves. “You’ve been gone for two years, Sherlock. What did you think would happen?”

He hesitates, and I can almost feel his angst in the sigh he heaves. “As long as he’s alive.”

I estimate his chances at fifty-fifty, depending on how he approaches Watson. My job is merely to tilt the balance, if I can.

 

The date with Miss Morstan goes well. I watch them flirt, laugh, and walk out of the restaurant hand in hand. But the expected does not happen. He drops her at her flat, continues on to Baker Street alone. I am cautiously hopeful. He has had dates with women before. Two dates, at most, and it will be over.

They meet the following week, this time for a movie. My vigilance increases. _Moderate threat. Attack possible, but not likely._

The next time it’s dinner again, a more expensive restaurant. Watching them get into a cab afterwards, seeing them get out at her flat and go inside— together— this means that he is becoming serious. _Substantial threat. Strong possibility of attack._

We have dinner at my club the following Thursday. He has grown a rather unbecoming moustache, another sign that he is moving on. I debate whether I ought to advise him to shave it off. That might increase his attractiveness, however, and make other females want to bargain with him. I will compliment his moustache, urge him to keep it. “Getting serious?”

He returns my smirk. “Getting jealous?”

This reply throws me off. I hadn’t even entertained the possibility that he might consider my attentions anything but those of a solicitous brother. Nor had I considered that my concern for him might be more than platonic.

_Am I jealous?_

I am certainly concerned for his safety. The very fact that Miss Morstan, a trained assassin, a confirmed mole working for our enemies, is interested in ordinary John Watson— this is alarming. He is undoubtedly in danger. Of course I am concerned.

 

It is time to act, to remove the threat and save John Watson. Then it will be up to Sherlock to win him back. “Is everything in place?”

Anthea nods. “We know that she is meeting Moran tonight at his townhouse. The Met, with the support of our people, is prepared to move in on our signal.”

My role is simple: have dinner with John Watson whilst I await confirmation that the operation has succeeded. The goal is mainly to prevent him from communicating with her. He is oblivious, naturally, but might say something to tip her off. There can be no hitches.

Surprisingly, he extends an invitation to me. There is something he’d like to discuss with me, he says. We dine at the Landmark on Marylebone. I request a private table off the main dining area.

A wine menu is presented. Watson smiles at me. “Assuming that none of their vintages have a screw top, you should probably choose.”

Since I already know that he will order the filet mignon with peppercorn sauce, I order a slightly heavier than typical Pinot Noir. The waiter hovers a bit unnecessarily as he pours a splash in my glass, waits for me to taste. I nod, and he fills our glasses.

I raise my glass. “To you, my friend.”

“Cheers,” he says. He takes a swallow, looking a bit nervous. “Thank you.”

I smile. “What are you thanking me for?”

“For befriending me.” He swirls the wine in his glass, staring into its ruby depths. “I know I’ve been difficult, but you’ve stuck by me. And it can’t be easy for you, either, losing your brother like that. Christ, what I’ve put you through these last two years.”

“John, I consider you a friend. What I’ve done for you was done out of love for my brother— and for you.” This is true, I realise. I did it for Sherlock initially, but at some point, it was only about Watson. I have always believed that sentiment is on the losing side, and am not sure how I became such an idiot. I am sentimental about John Watson.

He gives me the same smile I used to see him give Sherlock, fond and a bit wistful, and I understand why my brother loves this man. “I’m glad,” he says. “Glad that you were here with me through all this. And that’s why I wanted to have dinner with you tonight.”

“Oh?” There is a question I should ask, but I don’t know what it is.

“We have several specials tonight—” the waiter begins.

I wave him off. “Give us a few minutes.”

“You know that Mary and I have been dating for a while. She’s a nurse at the surgery. I’ll have to introduce you.” He laughs. “Though I suppose you already know everything about her.”

“That would be lovely.” _Not lovely_ , I think. But also not necessary. And soon, irrelevant. I don’t know everything about this woman, but I know enough.

“I’ve been thinking of, well… I know it’s time for me to move on, start a new life.”

“Only if you’re ready, John. Grief takes a long time.” I sense that I am beginning to babble. Just a bit.

“God, it’s been hard.” He looks up at me, and his eyes are glistening. “I loved him, you know.” He gives a short, bitter laugh. “Never said anything, of course. I’m a bloody fool. I know he didn’t have feelings like that. He didn’t… but….” He swallows hard and presses his lips together. “I did. Love him.”

“John—”

“It’s all right,” he says, sniffling. “I know he’s not coming back. I need to move on, and I’m trying to do that. I think I’ve finally figured it out. I’m going to ask Mary.”

“Ask her?”

“To marry me.” He gazes at me, his eyes still wet. “I think… She’s meeting me later tonight, and I think I’m going to ask her. I just wanted to tell you, because you’re the only one who understands how I feel. All this time you’ve been helping me through the grief, so maybe you can help me see if this is the right step.”

“You’re uncertain.”

He nods. “I’m just not sure if what I’m feeling is love. Maybe I’m just missing—”

“Not love,” I say.

He blinks. “What?”

“Wrong step. You’re not done grieving, John. In fact, I think you’re still in Stage One, _Denial_.” I am definitely babbling now. “You’re angry, depressed, and trying to bargain with yourself. This isn’t a good time to begin a serious relationship. You think that if you marry this woman, you can fix yourself, but that’s not going to happen. You’re going to wake up one morning and realise…”

I stop. The waiter is hovering again, uncertain. I catch his eye. He nods.

A puzzled crease has appeared between Watson’s eyebrows. “Realise what?”

My phone buzzes. It’s Anthea. “Sir, we’ve got Moran and his people, but the woman wasn’t there.”

“Where is she?”

“We don’t know.”

“How—” At that moment I spot Mary Morstan striding across the restaurant. She’s wearing a blood-red dress and a murderous smile. I suspect that in her darling beaded clutch there is a revolver.

Watson sees her and jumps to his feet. “Mary! I thought—”

“Shut up, John.” As she reaches our table, she aims the gun at me. It’s at her hip level, but I have no doubt that she knows how to hit whatever she aims at. “Don’t move or say anything, or I’ll shoot your _date._ ”

John gapes at her. “He’s not—”

“Yes, he is— and he’s going to be dead unless the two of you accompany me outside, where I have a car waiting.”

I stand. “No need for John to accompany us. He knows nothing.”

“And why is that?” Watson is angry. “Why is _poor John_ always in the dark?” He glares at me. “What is going on, Mycroft?”

“Short version,” I say. “You’ve been dating an assassin.”

His eyes widen, then narrow. “You didn’t think to mention this? I’ve been dating her for weeks now, and you could have told me—”

“It was necessary to keep you in the dark.”

He turns on her. “You — what have I done to deserve you?”

I clear my throat. “Actually, John, you chose her.”

“Why is this my fault?” His raised voice silences the other diners.

Mary turns and gives the dining room a smug smile. “Sorry. Just a bit of a domestic.”

I continue. “And if you thought you’d be happy living in the suburbs, you don’t know yourself. You are addicted to a certain lifestyle, John, abnormally attracted to dangerous situations and people. Which is why—”

Seeing his face, I stop talking. He looks as if he is about to begin shouting again, not the best course of action under the circumstances.

Casting a look at Ms Morstan, I hope that Anthea has located her and will shortly arrive with the cavalry. “Ahem. Perhaps we should do as she suggests, move this conversation outside.”

John closes his eyes, draws a shaky breath. Opening them, he looks wrathfully at Mary. “You weren’t supposed to be… like that,” he chokes.

Mary shrugs. “Sorry to disappoint.” She smiles at me sweetly. “He’s coming with us. You will be my first target, Holmes, if it comes to that. But if John doesn’t stop whinging, I might change my mind and shoot him first.”

“Dessert?” The waiter has reappeared with menus. Which is odd, because we haven’t ordered our entrees yet.

I glance up at him. “No thank you. Not just yet.”

The waiter retreats and Mary motions for us to follow. “Just act normal,” she says.

Watson stands, frowning. “Where are we going?” No one answers him.

I stand as well. As we make our way to the door, I murmur, “I’m sorry, John. I should have told you.”

“Told me what?” He looks around the room. The other diners seem uninterested, unperturbed as we walk towards the exit. “What else did you forget to tell me?”

We’re on the street now. She’s got the gun covertly aimed at me.

I confess. “She is working with the very people who made Sherlock jump. She is one of Moriarty’s associates. She targeted you, we believe, because she was trying to get information about Sherlock.”

He gapes again, this time at me. “About Sherlock? What for? Why does it matter, when he’s—” He looks at me and appears to realise something. “Mycroft—?”

Mary motions to a waiting car. “Get in. And do stop talking.”

“I couldn’t tell you. It was—”

At that moment our waiter comes running through the door after us. He is holding a takeaway box. “Excuse me, Monsieur! Your dessert— you must not leave without your dessert!”

“My dessert?” Watson gapes once more, this time at the waiter, who is holding the box towards him.

“On the house,” he pants. “ _Mort au Chocolat_. Our specialty. You will love it.”

Watson’s face, frozen in an expression of shock, thaws. Smiling, he takes the box. “Sounds delicious. Thank you.”

Opening the box, he removes not a dense, flourless chocolate dessert, but a revolver. Aiming it at Mary’s head, he says, “Drop the gun!”

Fortunately, she does. No bloodshed tonight. The cavalry arrives. Watson keeps the gun trained on her until my people step in and whisk her away. I anticipate that it will be a long time before Mary Morstan has another dinner date.

Watson reengages the safety clasp and tucks the revolver into the back waistband of his trousers. Instinctive, I suppose, after so many years running after Sherlock.

In his pathetic waiter disguise, complete with penciled-on moustache, my brother is looking nervous, apologetic, and apprehensive. Anticipating his anger, no doubt. “Short version: not dead,” he murmurs.

Watson’s face is a shifting landscape of emotion. Denial, anger, understanding, sorrow. And finally, acceptance. “Come here,” he says.

At this point there is an outpouring of sentiment with few words spoken. A small piece of my heart breaks off. A part of me grieves. But I will recover.

 

A week later, Dr Watson invites me to lunch. We meet at a small coffee shop near the hospital.

“And how is my dear brother?” I note that he has shaved off his ghastly moustache, but do not point out what a good decision this was. I know exactly what Sherlock said to him ( _Are you going to keep that? Makes you look ancient_ ), can imagine the peeved argument that followed ( _I don’t shave for Sherlock Holmes_ ), and can see who won.

“As always— an insufferable git.” But he smiles as he says this.

“And you? Have you sorted things out with him?”

His smile widens. “Yeah, we’ve figured it out.”

“I’m glad.” Truly, I am glad. Sherlock is, in fact, an insufferable git, but he is my brother. I want him to be happy, and if John is able to put up with him, it’s quite possible that they will both be better off.

We eat our sandwiches in silence for a while.

“I meant what I said.” He takes a sip of coffee. “Thank you for pulling me through.”

“You’re not angry?”

He shakes his head. “It could have been much worse if you hadn’t kept after me. The things you said— I didn’t always want to hear them, but they helped. You were right. I wish I’d known about Sherlock, but I understand why you couldn’t tell me.”

“I did not think he would be gone so long. And Moriarty’s people were still active in London, as you now know. Ms Morstan was one of several we’ve managed to take into custody.”

Watson gives a small shudder. “To think that I might have married her.”

“Surely you would have seen through her eventually.”

“I don’t think I would have— until it was too late.” He gives a short laugh. “You’re right about me. I do run after danger. And I’m much better off running after Sherlock than living in the suburbs with an assassin. So, thank you for being an interfering arse.”

I touch the corners of my mouth with the napkin. “My pleasure.”

He is smiling at me, the first genuine, happy smile I’ve seen in two years. And I am happy for him. Sherlock survived and accomplished his mission; John has survived as well. My own mission is finally complete.

“Welcome back, Dr Watson.”


End file.
